we no longer know how to light the fire

"When my father's father's father had a difficult task to accomplish, he went to a certain place in the forest, lit a fire, and immersed himself in silent prayer. And what he had to do was done.

When my father's father was confronted with the same task, he went to the same place and said: 'We no longer know how to light the fire, but we still have the prayer.' And what he had to do was done.

Later, my father also went into the forest and said: 'We no longer know how to light the fire. We no longer know the mysteries of prayer, but we still know the exact place in the forest where it occurred. And that should suffice.' And it did suffice.

But when I was faced with the same task, I stayed at home and I said: 'We no longer know how to light the fire. We no longer know the prayers. We don't even know the place in the forest. But we still know how to tell the story."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAZrJFmpRr8

Quote by Paul Kingsnorth

"What do you do," he asked, "when you accept that all of these changes are coming, things that you value are going to be lost, things that make you unhappy are going to happen, things that you wanted to achieve you can't achieve, but you still have to live with it, and there's still beauty, and there's still meaning, and there are still things you can do to make the world less bad?"

—Paul Kingsnorth, environmental activist

http://www.paulkingsnorth.net/

alone together

all alone as if you could ever be 
partially alone. eclipse witnessed 
but only if our minds are clear 
enough for that scheduled shadow.
exhausted sighs grilled beneath the mottled blue
as we throttle through this miami music morning. 
i need a plan for the unexpected, i think
what to do when the civilization you're in,
not that it was your idea, begins to collapse 
as the severe metal man marches past
and it's all downhill in dark shades for him 
at least until she leans 
her sunny blonde smile over the table,
adding unintentional dimensions to the frame. 
a new you must find a way to repeat the bursts again
for that sweet strange being begging on laps for treats,
coat the color of sooty snow, cut from winter's final storm, 
sprung for the blood moon that's almost passed.
outside this voracious dream sits a man on chrome 
leathered down for the growl while a crumpled face 
fumes over the headlines, puffs preloved smoke into 
the tepid shade while a paprika haired young man 
paces from metallic table to curb in a black sweater 
& olive green pants, one palm pressed flat to ear 
as if stopping his head to keep some precious thought 
from dripping on his girlfriend, quietly eating her granola 
in a black hoodie, black skirt & maroon tights, her 
wet black bangs dappled neon green, spilling over 
her pale contemplative brow. a red straw, 
planted like a flagless pole in a translucent cup of ice 
water, salutes beside her bowl while the paprika boy 
pauses beside a young tree, still talking as he reaches 
for a skinny limb, the young leaning upon the young. 
i watch them saunter across the street when he finishes, 
where they recline beneath the bus stop's burgundy 
shelter, legs crossed in an impromptu picnic  of wine 
& olive, stoically shaded by the mini plaza's lone pine, 
all together, as if they could ever be, 
partially alone.

Gregory Crewdson Photo

sitting outside 

the Madison

smoking inside 

the Mystery